


Collateral (Damage)

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Forced Orgasm, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 09:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15116831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He'd like to say it was nothing personal, but honestly, it was extremely personal. It was just personal with someone else.





	Collateral (Damage)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allyoops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/gifts).



"You're going to need a new duffel bag soon," Pyotr said, one evening, much like any other. Abigail was on the floor, stretching. Pyotr had his gear spread out over the bed for inspection. "You're getting too tall for this one."

Abigail bit her lip--he frowned--she stopped, feeling even more ashamed, to tempt him as well as inconvenience him. It was true, though, that the seams were becoming strained. She'd felt a popped stitch against her knee yesterday.

"Maybe some kind of hard shell suitcase," she offered. "Then you could roll it, too--"

"Do you think I can't lift you? Don't _hunch_."

Abigail pulled her shoulders back. "I just meant, you shouldn't have to."

She kept her eyes on her legs, stretched out in front of her, and his shoes, in her peripheral vision, but they didn't turn toward her, and his weight didn't shift. She waited a minute longer, to be sure, but he didn't say anything else, and she started doing her stretches again. Pyotr continued securing the room. It was like any other chain motel room in America. It was easy to know how to stay out of his way.

Towards the end of her routine she pushed herself up into a bridge, and Pyotr stopped beside her.

"Hold the position," he said, and she froze. One warm hand came to rest on the tight muscles of her stomach. He left it there for a moment, before nudging her shirt up until gravity dropped it over her face. She remained frozen, staring at nothing, while he wrapped something thin and chilly under her breasts, and then again around her waist, and then her hips. It left her skin, and he stepped away.

That was strange. She'd gotten new clothes two months ago. Maybe they were headed somewhere cold? Well, Pyotr would tell her when she needed to know.

Pyotr let her finish in peace after that. He ate green curry on the bed while flicking through news channels, and handed her down the box when he finished. Abigail leaned against the bed and savored being back in a city with Thai food. When she crawled to the bathroom, the water pressure was strong, and the hot water limitless.

In bed that night, Pyotr curled around her, warm and beginning to drift off, Abigail jerked awake as his hand on her breast squeezed. 

"Birthday soon," he said, in a sleepy mumble. She wriggled a little, and stopped at a harder, warning squeeze. Pyotr always gave her something to commemorate the day he'd rescued her. Something to sweeten her memories, he said, something to help. Eating out in an actual restaurant. Her first pair of underwear. A camping trip, where she could be as loud as she wanted.

This year, he'd make her a woman. 

He kissed her shoulder, and they both drifted off soon after.

A good night.

A good morning:

Abigail woke up alone, and slipped off the bed to find the bagel and note Pyotr had left for her. And--a sharp and furtive excitement cramped her stomach--a new book. Sweet Valley High. Abigail slipped it reverently in the bedside table drawer, so she'd be less distracted--she could have it after her homework and exercises. She knew the rules, and having it in her eyeline would only tempt her to rush, which would... 

But she wasn't going to rush. She let it lurk there in the drawer, waiting for her, while the Holy Roman Empire formed in agonizing increments across her notebooks, and the area under curves explained itself with vegetal slowness.

A green flash in the corner of her eye made her start, guiltily. Abigail had been staring at the margin of her paper, wondering if Pyotr would bring back lunch. She rolled her head away from her physics textbook and scooped the phone up off the sheets.

A text. Abigail thumbed it open.

_A man is coming. Obey him like you would obey me. The life that I have is all that I have._

The phone slipped out of her fingers.

*

The diner was public enough they couldn't fight, and private enough that no one looked around when negotiations broke down, and Pyotr offered him something he never fucking saw coming.

"Bullshit you do," Ethan exclaimed, and then burst out laughing. Pyotr was looking at him like he'd rather spit shine Putin's dick than say what he was saying. "Oh my God, you do! You have a pet!"

"You have nothing inside you but filth," Pyotr said. He was staring into his coffee cup. Both hands around it, where Ethan could see them. Neither man was eating. Pyotr was probably sick with fury, and Ethan was too delighted to obscure with half-chewed pancake any opportunity to be smug. 

"Let's not talk about what been inside _me_ ," Ethan said, and Pyotr flinched. "So she really is a virgin? You haven't--?" The gesture wasn't necessary. Few pleasures were, though. Pyotr's face was a picture, was fucking ten foot graffiti art emblazoned on an overpass. There was a reason he did wetwork and not undercover.

"I was waiting," he managed to say.

Ethan put his hand over his heart. "I sincerely appreciate you," he said. "Show me."

He didn't have any pictures of her face. _Albums_ of her body, though--looked like he kept her in exercise clothes, mostly. Soft fabrics that clung to the curve of her round ass and lovingly displayed the tits that never seemed to be in a bra. 

"I cannot believe you kept this secret," he said, scrolling. A tiny bit of dark braid in the frame. An obsessive cataloguing of a tiny spray of freckles across a pale shoulder. There she was, in a split, and there, on a bed--

"What is on her hands?" Ethan said, tilting the screen this way and that.

"Does it matter."

"Does my cooperation?"

"They are to..." he trailed off. Weirdly, for a man who could discuss torture with equanimity, he seemed embarrassed. "So she doesn't. Touch herself. In the night."

Ethan slowly lifted his eyes from the phone. Pyotr was glaring at him.

"She is a good girl," he said.

"Give me the motel key," Ethan said.

"And you will--"

"Oh," Ethan said, zooming in on a faint shadow showing through white panties. "Scout's honor."

*

If he had knocked, Abigail would not have been able to open the door--but he didn't knock ( _as all those years ago Pyotr had not knocked_ ) and the situation didn't arise. The door just rattled in its frame and then he filled the doorway, and then was through it, and looking at her. 

No one _looked_ at her, no one saw her uncovered hair, her eyes without glasses, her body without her coats. It scalded. She looked at him, too, but all she could see was _big_ and _blue suit_ and _pale hair_ and none of that was useful.

She stayed there, on the ground, back pressed hard into the bathroom door. 

"The life that I have is all that I have," she whispered, as soon as he was fully inside.

The man shut the door. "And the life that I have is yours," he finished. "The love that I have of the life that I have--"

Her mouth glued itself shut. 

He came closer, until the tips of his black shoes were inches from her bare feet. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is yours and yours and yours," she said, and when he bent down, let him pull the gun from her lifeless, unresisting hands.

"Stand up," he said. She cringed deeper into the door.

"The windows," she said. "My silhouette--"

He discarded the gun onto the dresser. "It's barely past noon, and the only person around here who wants to kill Pyotr is me."

That made the gears in her head click to rusty motion again. "You're his enemy." Why would Pyotr give her to-- "This is--this is a bargain. He made. Some kind of deal."

He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Got it in one. Now stand up."

Abigail pushed herself up the door. It felt curiously unstable, even with the door against her back, to stand up in front of the window, like she was a vine without a trellis.

She tried to stay quiet--quiet was safe--as his eyes took in her bare face, slid down her neck, dragged down to her chest, to her hips, the yoga pants grown thin and tight over her thighs, her ankles, her feet. 

"Is he alright?" she blurted out.

The man had tilted his head to look at her, and this made him blink rapidly and stop staring at her breasts. "Is he--? Girl. Abby. Is _he_ alright?"

"Did you hurt him?"

"Did I hurt him," he said, near noiselessly. "No. I did not. He is not alright--"

Pain raked through her chest.

"--he is a fucking psycho killer for hire who keeps a girl in a backpack, but he is physically unharmed. Turn around."

_Obey him like you would obey me._

Abigail couldn't help hunching a little, with him at her back. He made some small noise--a sigh? Was that good, or bad--

"Do you know why I'm here?"

She stared at her hands. She'd put them on the door, for the solidity, the stability. 

Abigail had not lived a life with a lot of room for abstract fears--fears that lived in the head, and could be warded off with blankets and lights--Abigail knew fear inside her body, knew it in the weakness of her limbs and thinness of her bones and how little it took, how little it took to turn a person into meat--Abigail _knew_ to be afraid of men, and what they would do to her without Pyotr. This should not feel so surprising.

"I think I can guess," she said.

"Huh. You can turn back around."

He smiled at her, when she did. It didn't help. "Some ground rules," he said. "It's all one rule, really. Make me happy, and Pyotr comes back, and nothing changes. Make me unhappy..."

"You kill him," Abigail guessed.

"No. Fuck. I wish. Are you completely without self preservation instincts? What if I killed _you_? No. You make me unhappy, I call the cops."

Her knees turned to water. She wavered and almost hit the ground.

"No," she whispered. "P-please, I--you can't, they'll--please--they can't know--"

The man surveyed her, and seemed to find her degree of terror acceptable. "That's convenient," he remarked. "Take your shirt off."

Abigail dragged it off immediately, gracelessly, disarranging her hair in the process. She stayed still as stone as he stepped in closer. Closer, until she could smell him, could nearly feel the fabric of his suit against her skin.

She flinched when he stroked a finger down the side of her breast. He, thankfully, didn't seem to mind that.

"Chin up, I'm better looking than Pete anyway," he said. Abigail had no idea if it was true. Pyotr was the tent pole that held up the sky; asking if he was attractive was like asking if the sun was. 

He was different than Pyotr, definitely. Taller, broader, blonder. Blue eyes, pale and unnerving.

"He told me you're a virgin," the man said. "That true?"

She didn't move, didn't speak.

He looked up, into her eyes. It was worse, close up, at this claustrophobic distance. "I have all night," he said. "I have all the time in the world. Feel free to drag this out as much as you want."

"Yes," she croaked. 

God, God, no one touched her, only Pyotr, she belonged to him, how could he do this, how could this happen? Would her skin ever be able to forget this thief's hands, taking what she was supposed to keep safe and clean for Pyotr? He was dragging the rough calloused pads of his fingers across the underside of her breast.

"You can cry if you need to," he offered, and Abigail immediately squeezed her eyes shut. No. The tiny tears that she'd shed when Pyotr pressed into her the first time, the ones he'd kiss away as he taught her how to take this kind of pain, too, he wouldn't have those.

He pulled his hand away. "Go lay on the bed."

Obey him like you'd obey me. Obey him like you'd obey me. Obey him like you'd obey gravity, like you'd obey an anesthetic mask, like you'd obey your lungs straining for the surface of the water.

She went. She lay on the bed, and turned her face, and stared at the napkin on the table, still spotted with crumbs from her breakfast. The man was discarding his jacket, rolling his sleeves up. His defiling hands took hold of the waist of her pants, and drew them down.

Abigail couldn't stop from flinching when he pushed her legs apart. His hands were cold. Pyotr's were always warm. He didn't climb over her, or pull her underwear down--instead he settled on his elbows between her knees.

"Cute," he said, and ran one finger over the thin fabric shielding her between her legs.

Abigail put her hands over her face. He laughed, down there, close enough she could feel it, that place she never ever touched, that belonged to Pyotr.

"He's going to kill you," she said.

"Maybe," he said. "But he'll always know your cunt was mine first." One knuckle was rubbing slowly up and down. "He won't be able to come inside you enough to ever forget he's only using a hole I've warmed up for him. He'll always wonder if you were tighter for me, if you screamed louder--"

"Shut _up_!"

"Sure," the man said agreeably, and lowered his face to the place his fingers had been stroking.

*

Well, she juiced up a treat. Even before he tugged her panties down, that fabric wasn't only clinging from his tongue. Poor thing, not even allowed to flick her own bean, no wonder she twitched and jerked under his mouth like he'd connected a circuit. He shifted one of her legs over his shoulder to help hold her steady and open while he worked on coaxing her clit out from under its hood. 

He was steady, slow, methodical, at first. Every woman was different, happy cunts were _not_ all like, and was fucking delighted to find romantic little Pyotr's toy could handle some rough treatment. After that it was hard not to get a little enthusiastic.

Her stoic silence broke when he slid a finger in. Nice and easy, hardly any friction at all. She really was made to fuck. 

"No--"

He curled his finger up, and her spine arched with it. He huffed a laugh. Another finger, then, the girl deserved a reward. The way her body clung to his fingers, she might not know it was a reward yet, but that was fine. He kept curling them up while he lavished attention on her clit. The no's were falling out of her mouth like rain. 

When her wriggling reached a certain peak, he stopped.

"Get the pillow," he said. She didn't move, kept staring at the ceiling. He pursed his lips and blew a stream of air across skin that had to be oversensitive by now, and enjoyed her twitch. "Abby. Get the pillows." He waited for her obedience, then said, "Prop yourself up. Watch."

When she'd done as she was told, when she was watching him with confusion and horror, muscles tight as piano wire, he dipped his head and found his rough rhythm again. Ethan wondered if she even completely understood what she was trying to hold at bay, when her heel dragged across the sheets, when her hands clenched into fists, when her breath grew hitching and ragged, when sweat began to rise between her breasts.

Either way, she failed. She crushed her fingers against her mouth and her legs spasmed, tipping her pelvis eagerly towards his mouth, as her obedient cunt started contracting around his fingers. He lifted his head to watch, and saw her eyes catch on his wet mouth before she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Don't worry," he said, when it was over, and her head had dropped back to stare at the ceiling. His fingers were still inside her. "That was just the first one."

"Can't you just--why are you--"

"I'm glad you're eager for my cock, Abby, but you're not a large woman," he said. "Hell, you're hardly a woman at all. This is going to be a process."

And with that he went back to it. Her defiance was weaker to start with, this time, built on a shaky foundation that remembered its own shattering, and she built more quickly towards another orgasm. Ethan gripped her hips hard, then. He didn't want to hurt her, really, but he very much wanted to leave marks. Abby didn't seem to mind a bit of manhandling. She was taking two fingers easily, then, and he worked at adding another, deaf to her ideas of getting on with it, and just fucking her already. No woman should have that kind of time, for her first.

The third finger was a bit more of an ordeal, and she was sheened with sweat by the time he was done. Ethan rose up on his elbows to admire her. Fuck, he could have used his cock to shatter a windshield by now. She'd be lovely even if she wasn't Pyotr's girl, chest heaving like that, thighs trembling.

But, of course, she was. The thing he'd kept secret and safe for so long, pried out of the rocks, all for him. He admired her clit, all red and swollen, that she'd never even been allowed to touch, that Pyotr would never be able to touch without thinking of him. Ethan realized he was grinding against the sheets. Well, he always ended up tipping his dry cleaner extravagantly for one reason or another.

He patted her leg companionably and slid off the bed to shuck out of his clothes. In the ordinary course of things he'd make a bit of a show of it, but he doubted she'd appreciate it fully. Abby shuddered when the bed creaked and shifted again. Her eyes had squeezed shut at some point, and they cracked open as he moved up her body.

She looked at his face--his face, covered with her juices--and squeezed her eyes shut again. He clicked his tongue.

"No. Look at me. No forgetting who did this to you," Ethan said. He waited until she obeyed to reach down and adjust his cock against her. He dragged the head through the wet heat of her, up and down. He ached to slam inside, hard, heedless, but that was no way to behave. He kept a hold of himself, and kept a hold of himself, so to speak, and slowly pressed the aching drum-tight head of his cock inside.

Abby sucked in air. Her hands had been grasping and loosening in the sheets, and in her mouth, trying to strangle the noise, while he ate her out. While he pressed inside her with horrible slowness one hand flew up to his shoulder, smacking against it. Ethan stopped, much as it ground on him to do so.

She didn't beg, just gave little sobbing breaths. When the muscles around her eyes had relaxed a bit, he pushed forward. He stopped once more before he was fully inside of her, and fuck, it was worth it. The blood-hot clutch of her body, her hitching shoulders, the way her eyes kept catching on his face, shiny with the evidence she hadn't been able to keep anything back from him.

"Say my name," he said.

Abby blinked. She took her knuckles out of her mouth. "I don't know it." Her voice was hoarse.

Ethan blinked back her her. Then he laughed. Judging from her expression, laughing with his cock inside her felt strange. "Ethan," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Ethan," she said.

"Now you say 'likewise'," he prompted, and watched the hate flaring in her eyes.

"Likewise." 

So obedient. He started thrusting, slow, shallow. But in this, too, she turned out to be no wilting flower--he sped up, he used his weight and strength against her, and the noises that leaked out around her hands and self control were ashamed and desperate but not pained. Ethan caught one leg and pushed her knee up towards her chest, and then the other.

"Hold them there--"

This new angle worked her g-spot as he'd meant it to, if the sudden increase in pitch was any indicator, and a groan spilled out of his own mouth.

"Fuck, you feel good," he said. "You feel perfect, so wet and hot, and all for me--" Ethan dropped his hand down, and started looking for the rhythm that would make her cunt milk him dry. He knew he'd found it when she started begging him to stop again.

He didn't, of course. He kept going, glorying in the feel of Pyotr's toy soaking his cock and writhing under his hand. He kept going, when her hands clenched on her legs, when she tried to kick away and he had to lean on her, and give a reproving little pinch, and when he felt her cunt start to spasm around him he dropped on top of her and jerked her head to one side by her hair.

"Sorry about this--" He bit down, hard, on the place her neck curved into her shoulder, and let his orgasm take him.

*

The man rolled off of her. Their separation made a noise. Somehow she'd never imagined the noises--the smells. In her imagination she and Pyotr had come together as cleanly and easily as puzzle pieces. Their skin hadn't stuck to each other. The sheets hadn't grown clammy and wrinkled. Pyotr had never shoved her legs up, leaving her splayed and awkward and ugly, froglike, vulnerable. 

In her mind, Pyotr held her, afterward. Abigail didn't think she ever wanted anything to touch her again.

"Well, now," the man said. after a few minutes had gone by, after their breathing had returned to normal. Abigail was counting hers, one two three in, one two three out. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" He rolled up on one elbow and surveyed her body. His eyes lingered on the sore spots on her hips, and the throbbing place on her neck, the places he'd left his signature on her.

"Can I go take a shower?" she said.

"You are much too good for Pete."

"Please?"

"Hold on." The man got off the bed and went to where his suit jacket hung over the chair. He came back with a phone. She was surprised to find she still had the energy to tense.

She held still as he took his photos. Would he keep them? Would he send them to Pyotr? Her stomach roiled.

"Go on," he said, when he was done. Abigail slipped off the bed. Her knees bent, instinctively, before she made them straighten. She walked to the bathroom.

Something wet was trailing down her thigh.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man called, as she was opening the door.

She closed it very carefully and quietly behind her.

*

Ethan dried himself off on the sheets. He dressed in no hurry. That shower was going to take a nice long time, if experience was any judge. When he was done he poked around the room, not expecting to find anything worth stealing, but still somewhat disappointed by it. Pyotr had never had any really interesting indulgences, though now he guessed he knew why. All his demented passions had bent around that girl, instead of ultimate frisbee or art theft or something.

He considered, again, what he was going to do, what he had been considering ever since he started doing math in that diner. Being known as a man who didn't keep promises was a death sentence, in a world where there was no rule of law. He'd end up in a ditch, or retraining as a fucking banker, or something. Keeping your word was the only thing that let the wheels of their little business keep turning.

Being _known_ as someone who didn't keep promises was a death sentence, and Ethan liked his life.

But who would know? Who would friendless, obsessive Pyotr tell, and who would believe him? Everyone who knew the two of them knew they were on a collision course. If he starting raving about Ethan, who would listen to him, anymore?

Ethan pulled open the bedside table drawer. There was a cheap paperback inside, on top of the bible. He flipped through it, and found nothing inside the pages. 

He should let him keep her. It would hurt him more, to watch her bruises heal, to fight his own revulsion, to come back to the room reeking of sex. The thought of Pyotr losing his tiny mind and his hard on would keep Ethan warm in some very cold places.

Regretfully, he looked around the room once more, and stepped out into the hallway. He woke his phone up, and with a heavy heart, dialed 9-1-1.

"Not really an emergency," he said, to the operator. "But that uh, that Annie girl? Annie Kinsdale? That girl who went missing in Missoula, ten years back? I'm pretty sure I just saw her. And she looked hurt."

Unfortunately, Abby Kinsdale's parents were very, very rich, and Ethan had ambitions beyond making Pyotr's life as miserable as possible. When Pyotr came back that night, wedding dress laid carefully across the backseat of the car, the news crews were already there.


End file.
